#so sweet ...

　　　the blanket was already warm, which tells him marcella took it from her own shoulders before shifting the hefty wool onto his. ( her delicate, lingering scent also whispers to him; he tugs the blanket a bit closer as if to shush in return. )   he was cold—he always is.  people don’t often consider that a dead man might still long for warmth ( and he can’t even blame them ), but all his favourite things are wrapped up in it; warm blood, warm days, warm earth beneath him.  he looks at her and lets a smile softly slip.  warm, unexpected companionship.   “... thank you.  you’ve another, i hope?”